In Sickness And In Health
by TechnicolorNina
Summary: Rex comes home one day with a little surprise. A very congested surprise. Rex/Martha, written for the 5Ds 100 on LiveJournal.


Ficdump of old stuff from my (still unfinished) 5ds_100 that somehow never got put up here.

**Title:** Sickness and In Health  
**Character/Pairing/Group:** Rex/Martha  
**Prompt:** #42 - Virus  
**Rating:** PG  
**Genre:** Romance, hurt/comfort of a very very super mild kind  
**Pairing:** Rex/Martha  
**Summary:** Rex comes home sick.  
**Notes:** For Miri, who requested this prompt and thinks I'm insane. Current NaNo word count: 5435 

* * *

He turns his head when she tries to kiss him hello, and she frowns, concerned, the line between her eyebrows first appearing and then deepening. Rex is not demonstrative in public – does not come, after all, from the culture in which she grew up – but he is affectionate enough, and this aversion of the face, the looking away, is both new and disturbing – as is his coming home in the middle of the day. Then he jerks his arm up and sneezes, using not his hand but the crook of his elbow, and she understands, putting her half-washed dish back in the sink and reaching for his forehead.

"You're sick?"

He nods, then sneezes again. "I'm going to have to make up hours next week. But I didn't think – " he pauses to cough – "I should be in right now."

"No," she agrees, reaching for the kettle to put tea water on the stove as he sits down at the table. "You sound like you have the flu."

"Too early for flu," he says, and she supposes he's right – early September is not yet influenza season. "But there's something going around at work."

"Then you're better off home," she answers, stopping in the middle of getting lemon juice out of the refrigerator so she can kiss his forehead before he can protest. "You shouldn't be out if you're – "

She's cut off when he coughs so hard he has to lean forward and take hold of the edge of the table for balance, letting his hand slide across the table toward the lazy susan. She takes a napkin from the napkin holder and puts it in his hand, crouching next to his chair, trying to see into his face to see if he's all right. He coughs into the napkin, far from a healthy sound, and finally lets out a wheeze and crumples it in his hand.

"You ought to be in bed, sounding that way," she tells him, getting him a glass of water to sip as she does. "I can bring tea up for you."

He nods but does not get up, and she has ample time to wonder what she will do, alone with him in the house, if he should need help getting up or down or into the bath, what things could happen to a man of his size if he had a dizzy spell in the shower or on the stairs, just because she is too small to support him. Finally he stands, reaching for the wall.

"I think – I'm going to need help on the stairs," he says, and even as she nods she has to wonder what on earth he was thinking, driving home alone if his balance is so off he can't navigate a staircase with banisters on both sides. Then she reaches for his hands to lead him across the hallway, letting him lean on the newel post while she loosens his tie and slides it over his head.

"Please tell me your 'something going around at work' isn't pneumonia, Rex," she pleads, and he shakes his head.

"The two people who discussed it said they were told it's just a bug," he answers, gripping the banister with one hand and putting the other on her shoulder, turning right instead of left at the top of the staircase.

"Rex . . . ?"

He leans on the doorframe, lets his hand leave her shoulder, presses it against her belly. "You don't need this. Especially now."

She considers pointing out to him that the wedding vows they took included caring for each other in both sickness and health, but she knows what it is he means, and so she desists, just nodding as she helps him into the guest room. "Should I call Dr. Schmidt?"

He shakes his head as she slides his shirt off his shoulders, feeling the overheated skin underneath and deciding a bowl of cool water is going to be in order along with the tea. "Tomorrow. If I still feel like – " he breaks off to cough again, finishing up with a sneeze. She pulls the bedspread down to the foot of the bed, then pulls the blankets down enough for him to slide underneath.

"I'll get tea," she says again, and he nods, coughing a little as he lies down. She heads back down the stairs quietly, listening to the sounds of the house, so much louder with her husband resting upstairs – a faucet that wasn't completely turned off, the floorboards beneath her feet, the clock ticking in the living room. It is the kind of silence that invites someone to break it, but quietly. In indoor voices, as teachers sometimes say.

The teakettle starts to whistle, and she silences it by pulling the stopper, pouring water over chamomile leaves. She adds lemon, and a bit of juice fresh from the orange, and cinnamon, and ginger – good for the immune system, as well as the lungs and throat – and stirs it, putting it on a tray with crackers and a dose of cold medication and ascending the stairs once again, stopping in their bedroom to get a washcloth and the small basin from under the sink. She fills it with cool water and crosses the hall, opening the door, setting the tray down softly on the end table.

He is already sleeping, a quiet wheeze making itself known every time he breathes out, one hand beneath his face. She sits on the side of the bed, brushes his hair back, dips her washcloth, and wipes his face. He opens his eyes – disoriented and groggy, as though she'd woken him in the middle of the night instead of the middle of the day – and she strokes his hair with her free hand.

"I brought you these," she tells him, holding out the cold capsules in her hand. He takes them willingly, swallowing them with a mouthful of the herbal tea, looking up at her as he does. She smoothes his hair again, watching him carefully, not wanting to wake him any further. He reaches for her hand and takes it, running his thumb over the back of her hand, pulling it to his lips and kissing it, meeting her eyes as he does. She dislikes being told what to do, but she also sees the concern – for her, for the baby – and nods just a little, accepting his unspoken command to wash her hands when she leaves the room. Then she brushes his hair back again, thinking to herself that he ought to either cut it shorter or let it grow all the way out.

"I don't know what I'd do without you," he says, then coughs. She reaches for the box on the nightstand and hands him a paper tissue.

"I can make soup tonight," she tells him. "I think I still have some of the chicken stock frozen."

He smiles a little, and rests a hand on her leg. She kisses her own fingers, then lowers them atop his. He turns his hand over to catch her fingers between his own.

"You sleep for now," she tells him, and he nods without protest, eyes already closing. She takes the tray back downstairs – be neat on sight, as her mother told her more than once, and there will be no need for looking later – and finds a bag of the chicken stock in the freezer. It isn't the way she likes to cook – she prefers fresh foods – but for times like this, it's perfect. She puts it in the double boiler to let it defrost, then returns to his side, where she will stay through the rest of the day. Later that night he will wake and tell her to get to bed; she may not be sleeping for two, but she has an obligation to the life inside her as well as to her own, and faced with that logic, she will go.

In sickness and in health – this is the promise she made, and she intends to keep it.


End file.
